The Fountain Scene
by ScatterBrain77
Summary: This was a high school English project where we had to write a descriptive essay and analyze archetypes. The analysis is not great but I thought the description of the scene was not great.


Wagner 5

Kellyn Wagner

Floyd

CP English 12

28 September 2010

A Timeless Story of Social Angst and the Antiheroes That Emerged as a Result

They were the creations of S.E. Hinton, the quintessential Outsiders, representing the ever-present dichotomy between social classes in the fight of "socs" against "greasers". In the midst of this conflict, two tragic heroes emerged, antiheroes in an essence, as unlikely as they were, two young boys, so young yet already scarred by the fight they had been born into. They were the scapegoats of society, the sidekicks of the strong, "tuff" kids on the block, the orphan and the child of alcoholics, forever embattled in a struggle they did not start and could not end. This battle of the individuals versus society's pressures all came to a collision, a brilliant, blinding, metal against metal catastrophe that had shock waves that would be felt for years. It was tragic fight, where innocence was lost and society won, where choices were removed and the roles assigned to society were fulfilled in one, life-altering night that would forever change some of the fictional inhabitants of 1960s Tulsa, Oklahoma.

It was a cold night, the frost making the grass crunch under the boys' feet, the smog permeating the air, impeding breath and making the neon lights of the city glow in one continuous fashion like vanity lights through tears. The sounds of honking and screeching tires created a soundtrack, a backdrop to the drama unfolding in the park. The park itself was old, with a rusted merry-go-round that groaned with an awful noise, the horrible sound of steel grating against steel, flecks of paint and rust being ground into a fine powder by the tilt of its axis whenever a child went to play. The jungle gym was the picture of danger, with uneven landings and slide held by one, flimsy bolt, waiting for a large child to knock it loose and remove the slide from its precarious position. Scorch marks from cancer sticks created a mosaic with the lead-based paint that was slowly falling off the playground. The swings hung, lightly moving, screeching eerily in the breeze that chilled Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade, reaching into their bones and stabbing into their souls. They were two runaways, faces streaked by the tears of an innocence lost to the mistakes of others. They wanted to get away. Ponyboy had forgotten his jacket in his haste to escape the volatile situation that had sent him running from the only refuge he had ever known: the arms of his brothers; Johnny was lost, completely and utterly, the illusions of a life better than his own disappearing as Ponyboy's safe world collapsed around him. They sat there, on that dilapidated playground, thinking, thinking of what they were going to do, thinking of where they were going to go, thinking that life could get no worse. At that moment, a powder blue mustang with an impeccable finish, seemingly untouched by the filth of the unswept it had had to drive through to reach this part of town. The motor rumbled like the sound of a rapid dog in the middle of the night, swiftly cutting out as doors slammed and lettermen jackets with designer jeans stepped out, their footsteps echoing across the splintered sidewalk, their gaits speaking of a wealthy arrogance and too much time spent with Jack Daniels. Ponyboy and Johnny's hearts fluttered like a firefly in fear of its life, their breath catching in their throats, their hands reaching for their scars, scars inflicted by the boys coming towards them, scars that would mar their skin for as long as they would live. There was no escape from the high-standing low-lifes, but run they tried.

One grabbed Johnny, swinging him around into the unforgiving fist of an older, larger boy, a boy with loafers and money clip thicker than Johnny's fist. Johnny tried to fight, but the bones that crunched together threw his small frame backwards onto the frigid ground speckled with rocks and grime. Ponyboy had even less of a chance. He was small, even for a fourteen-year-old boy, with the long, lean limbs of a runner and the delicate hands of a reader. His eyes were narrowed, like prey about to die but refusing to surrender. Four of the boys, four large football players, hands larger than Ponyboy's head, arms rippled with muscles from hours spent in the gym rather than working, grabbed him roughly. He struggled fiercely, like a bear fighting the snare he knew could end his life, like the elephant that fought so fiercely against that human metal courage that pierced its flesh. His arms and legs felt as though they would fall off from the unrelenting pressure, the night the fled from his skin as a burning heat consumed him, dread settling into his soul. They thrust him into the fountain that had not run for years, the grimy water turning their hands to grease and slowly suffocating poor Ponyboy as he struggled beneath the surface, breathing in liquid death, gagging on the burnt oil and the urine that permeated the water and scorched his taste buds. He gasped hopelessly for breath each time they held him up for a few seconds, his lungs slowly constricting his heart, his entire body feeling as though it would burst, his vision darkening at the edges, closing in like the courthouse doors his murderers would never see. With that, he was gone.

Johnny Cade was forced to watch, He had lost his innocence many years ago, his desire to stay gold held in Ponyboy himself; his heart was still pure until that moment when he broke free from the boy holding him, lunging up from the grass, pushing through the debris in the air, drawing a wooden handle with a silver heart that flashed against city lights like a diamond engagement ring in the lights of a camera. Such a pristine artifact that swiftly became drenched in crimson. All but one of Ponyboy's attackers fled, like the wolves who faced the gun of a human, the final boy falling, slowly, like the statue crumbling under the hammers of rebels, blood dripping from his mouth as it gurgled up his throat and out in little bubbles of a childhood so many at this time never had. Johnny stared first at his hands, blood soaking in to lines already filled by dirt, creating a mud-like mixture that enraptured him. He reached up and touched the scar on his face, a scar made by a blade much like the one he no longer had. He stared at the blood that ran in rivulets, creating tributaries from a lake that picked up dust and dirt and ashes as it rolled across the ground, staining the already wet surface of the area around the fountain. Ponyboy sat up, gasping for air, consciousness returning with eyes glazed from oxygen deprivation, eyes struggling to comprehend that lack of activity that held so much power in front of him. " He was going to kill you." That was all Johnny said. Nothing else needed to be said. He had taken a stand, finally being proactive in a fight that was simply a self-perpetuating cycle of the strong attacking the weak. He had saved the life of his friend at the cost of another and possibly his own life.

The sounds of night returned, an indication that life, life in this world would go on, but not for those whose lives had forever been altered on that fateful night. Ponyboy and Johnny went on the run from the law, their journey eventually causing Johnny's death less than two weeks after that night. As for Bob Sheldon, he was a boy that had his entire life ahead of him, with money that would allow him to do anything he wanted; instead, he chose to become society's pawn and prey on those weaker than him, a deadly game that ended his life and all hopes for his future. Johnny was a hero that night, however reluctant, however unlikely. He saved a life at the cost of another and at the cost of his own in an essence. The night was like all the others, there will be millions more just like it, with lights of the city blocking the view of the heavens, with horns and tires that deafened the thoughts of young men, with chill that reached the bones of all it touched. Sadly, it did not end the fight. The rich and the poor fought, they rumbled, they blamed, and they ignored. Society had won against the individuals, the only victor in a war full of casualties.


End file.
